


Message in a Bottle

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bars and Pubs, Flashbacks, Gen, Herbology, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge, Time Travel, Watchers, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: Joe Dawson is Duncan MacLeod's Watcher.  He tends to be a man of firm commitment.Cassandra has ambitions for Duncan MacLeod.  She tends to be a woman of firm opinion.Amanda is Amanda.  She just wants to do a favor for Connor.Eventually, they will all cross paths, with Duncan in the middle.





	Message in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Set during early season five in the chronicles of Duncan MacLeod, meandering around Prophecy and End of Innocence, after the Watchers try Joe Dawson for treason. '90s technology is very '90s.

*************

A Pub in Glenfinnan near the shore of Loch Shiel

 

“Have you heard from Duncan recently?” Connor dropped an old oilskin pouch on the table between them and drew out a folded piece of vellum, crumbling at the edges.

“I heard a rumor that he just took Kantos down in Seacouver,” Amanda said, studying Connor circumspectly. He looked tired, and somewhat sad, unmoored from his home surroundings.

“I found this. In that,” He pointed at the oilskin bag. Then he laid the paper down in front of him, after making sure the table was dry and clean.

“That’s Duncan’s writing!” Amanda exclaimed, then smiled vacantly at the red-haired bartender who frowned in their direction and made the universal sign for wine. “How old is it?”

“That is Duncan’s writing,” Connor agreed, far more quietly, frowning. “His writing now. But I found this packet in a collapsed wall last week in the ruined chapel on the isle of St. Finan’s."

He went silent as the bartender arrived to take Amanda's order, and waved off any libation for himself.

"Do not mention that to the locals," Connor warned. "They are protective of the old piles on Loch Shiel.”

“So are you,” Amanda reminded. “And you were dismantling walls on holy ground because…?” Amanda encouraged, inching forward in her chair, trying to read the message again, upside down. It was more like a short list than a letter, scratched hurriedly on a scrap of vellum.

Connor turned it around. “Do you read Gaelic?”

“Pht. Rebecca spent ages with the Gaels. I learnt it with my Latin. Let me see.”

 _Cousin Connor,_  
_1)Vigilantem. Watching clans still war amongst themselves._  
_2)Joseph has strayed from his flock.  Return to the fold is uncertain.  Path is unknown._  
_3)Amanda. Fair Amanda.  Joseph’s one true journal has been acquired by the denizen of Donan Woods. All advice appreciated on its speedy return._  
_4)Solstice next, may we meet again at the edge of the black water._

“This makes no sense.” Amanda looked at both sides of the vellum, then inspected the pouch. “The last I heard, Duncan was no longer speaking to Joe. Now he wants me to steal his journal?  Could it be a trick?  Maybe someone slipped this message into your packet while you weren't looking."

“It never left my side.”

“Maybe someone dug it up and reburied before you found it?”

"I saw no disturbance.  And no one else alive knew it was there."  Connor looked into the distance and shrugged. “Ramirez had a small cache on St. Finan’s Isle on Loch Shiel. On our last visit, we spent most of the solstice secretly rebuilding it into a priest hole. That’s what they call it now, but truly, it was just an Immortal bolt hole on holy ground, and dark and cold it was, but dry and secure. We used it to dodge tax collectors that last year, and for hiding our most damning and least profitable papers. I was feeling nostalgic, last week, and I dug it up.”

Amanda paused and did the millennial math from Ramirez’s death. “You’re saying this cache hasn’t been opened in over 450 years? Impossible. Despite the antique phrasing, it mentions people alive right now."

"Joseph is a common name."

"There's only one Joe with all these sins.  I’ll need a copy before we part. When was the last time you two met "... _by the black water_?’ ”

“Strangely, never,” Connor said quietly. “One or the other of us often greeted Sun’s Return at the glen, in the habit of the clan, but we both traveled often, and far, and crossed paths in the Highlands more rarely than you might think.” He handed over a crisp photocopy, and folded the original away into the packet of antique papers. “Or perhaps we did celebrate in Duncan’s youth, and I did not yet recognize him for what he was. Because contrary to my memory, the statement feels true. Maybe I am getting old.”

“You’re younger than me, stripling,” Amanda warned, then returned her focus to the timeline. “Duncan hadn’t been hatched, yet, when you studied with Ramirez.”

“Yes. That’s why I called you here. The Villa-Lobo seal was intact. The vellum in this oilskin case hasn’t been disturbed since it was bricked away by my own hand. I could see my fingerprints in the mud work. But it must be a fake. Fakes are more your area of expertise than mine.”

Amanda didn’t miss the dark irony. “Dear Connor, I am flattered, but not responsible.” She examined the packet again from all angles, then spread out the copy of offending missive. “This letter mentions his Watcher. Take my word for it, Joe is beautifully, thoroughly mortal, and from the last news I heard from Paris, lucky to be alive. Duncan was very, very unhappy with him."

“Duncan is young, yet, speaking of striplings,” Connor reminded.

Amanda straightened, and gave her expert opinion. “But his writing has matured.  Despite the flavor of the words, it is Duncan's hand now, not his younger penmanship.  Even 200 years ago, Duncan didn’t write like this. I still have a letter from him in 1803 in New Orleans--take my word for it.”

“Heh...a love letter?” Connor said with a fleeting laugh.

Amanda arched her eyebrow. “Do you wish to be reminded of your own brief ventures into Elizabethan sonnets?”

“Point taken,” Connor acceded, but a rare light of mischief still danced in his eye. “And I agree--Duncan let his letters slide during the Napoleonic Wars. His grammar was creative, and spelling abysmal. Don’t tell him I told you that.”

Amanda patted Connor’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’ll save both the Napoleonic letter and the sonnets for our next reunion. Speaking of reunions, I have reason to believe Joe and Duncan are both staying in Seacouver this summer. Are you coming?”

Connor considered, then shook his head. “Not yet. Duncan mentions the witch of Donan Woods. We have a bit of history, she and I, and she keeps a retreat nearby. I can drop in and borrow a cup of goat’s milk, or a nice mushroom tea, perhaps a book.  In passing, we could reminisce about the good old days.  The plague, the removals, the pursuivants, the whisky wars, the Templars, the Watchers, you get the drift. Unless you’d prefer…?”

“I stopped listening at 'plague.'  Been there, done that.” Amanda shuddered, reached up to her throat, and touched Rebecca’s crystal. “I try to stay out of Cassandra's territory. She and Rebecca had methodological issues, and the cleanup could be unsavory. If it is all the same, I’ll go to Seacouver and check on Duncan and Joe.”

Connor’s mood darkened as he considered the larger scope of recent affairs. “Whatever the source, it would be best to determine just how far the Vigilantes have strayed. Then, yes, it is time to have words with Duncan.”

 

**********

Duncan’s loft, Seacouver

 

“Did you know there was someone watching your home, Duncan?  It is not one of Kanto’s men.  They were freed by his death.” Cassandra dropped a bag of groceries on the kitchen island, fetching out a bag of mushrooms and frowning at their unnatural uniformity. “This is a man with a cane, hiding a tattoo.”

“Joe is here?” Duncan said, taking a step to the window and glancing down. “I am surprised he didn’t walk right in. That’s more his style. Though perhaps he knows better by now,” he added to himself in an unhappy undertone.

“I sent him on his way,” Cassandra shrugged, fetching a knife to cut the mushrooms into more pleasing shapes for the pot. “He is unharmed,” she qualified, when she saw Duncan stiffen. “Why? Do you care about him?”

“I have drawn my sword on him, twice. Still, he returns to my doorway, again and again, trusting my hospitality. And he has shot me dead. Twice.” Duncan allowed a half smile, and confessed, “Once, in error. The second time, I deserved it.”

Cassandra beheaded a carrot, then proceeded to dissect a defenseless leek. “It is not wise to allow transitory mortal acquaintances too many liberties with your lives, Duncan,” Cassandra chided.

“Yes, I know. That is how Jakob was murdered. Joe’s people know too much about our Immortality, and their mission has splintered into factions.”

“He believes in you, but you no longer believe in him?” Cassandra nodded in agreement. “Few mortals aspire to our trust. Fewer still deserve it. It is a hard lesson, which even I am occasionally doomed to repeat.”

“A hard lesson indeed.” Duncan sighed. “In other lives, in other times, we might have stood shoulder to shoulder in battle, for just cause. But Joe and I are through, now. Done.”

“You are done, but is he? I’ll wager he knows you better than a brother, and some things that you don’t know yourself,” Cassandra slowly clicked her nails against the stone counter top. “The Guild journeymen rarely reveal themselves, the masters of the craft almost never. Was he careless, or were you canny?” Her nail scritched as she traced a trefoil design.

“I was angry, after Darius died, and at first Joe stood in my way. Eventually, we allied,” Duncan answered. “He was a friendly face raised in the camp of a dangerous enemy.  But betrayal always has consequences.”

“Ah, a Campbell fostered among the MacDonalds, unwilling to shed the family ties? Having eyes in an enemy camp is a tactical coup, Duncan. You know who you are, a chieftain’s son and a clan leader in your own right. Use your advantage, until the advantage is worn out, then discard him and walk away. You know who he is.”

“Do any of us know who we are? What we are truly capable of when pressed?” Duncan paced. “What Joe did was dishonorable. He allowed the Watchers to kidnap one of us. But he did it to protect me. Do I blame him for interfering, or not interfering enough?”

“Ah, so there’s the rub.  You live, Jakob does not.” The smell of garlic and thyme wafted through the loft as Cassandra’s knife moved with a rhythmic tap. “Metaphysical introspection becomes you, Duncan, but indecision does not. Do you want me to get rid of him for you?”

Duncan’s response was definitively decisive. “No. He is my affair.”

Cassandra nodded amiably. “Until he becomes mine.”

 

*************

Outside Duncan’s Loft, Seacouver

 

_“I just got back into town.”_

_“I heard.”_

As he made his way back to his car, Joe shook his head, disgusted with himself for losing his temper. MacLeod’s relationship with Richie was more important than Joe’s pissant mortal feelings.

Humbled ego aside, the main objective had been accomplished, for better or worse. MacLeod had the information that he didn’t know he needed--Richie was back in town, and he was headhunting. Given what he knew, a rudderless Richie was a danger to everyone on both sides of the Watcher/Immortal fenceline.

Joe slammed the car door a little too hard. There was something off. Something out of kilter. He ran the rhythm of his conversation with MacLeod over again in his head, hearing again the honest distrust and firm dismissal in the Highlander’s tone and cadence.

_“I just got back into town.”_

_“I heard.”_

Out of a habit drummed into him since his apprentice days, Joe slid his field notebook out of the hiding place below the dash. He was a Watcher. That was the job. He recorded.

How had MacLeod heard that Joe was back in town? Not from Richie. Not from Methos, who was losing himself somewhere in the Mediterranean. Amanda had wisely steered clear of the massacre.  She had good instincts.

Then he threw his pen at the dashboard in disgust. The bullet holes in his left shoulder ached, but it was his guilt over Galati that still burned like acid. It would be a supremely bad idea to record in any way, shape or form that he’d gone to MacLeod in order to urge him to mend his fences with Richie.

He was perversely tempted to send the dialog to headquarters, anyway, just to see what the Watchers would do. There were some traditionalists who would react by bringing to bear some larger calibers to finish what Horton and Shapiro started. Or maybe some of the new young guns might try an IED--that would bring his career full circle. “Self-pitying, much, Dawson?” Joe asked himself, picking up the pen again.

He could write “I will not befriend my Immortal” a hundred times. Not that that worked particularly well in high school.  Maybe he was smarter now, but he doubted it.

Taking a deep breath to cool out his temper, Joe paged back through the notebook. He’d been a near wreck right after Shapiro sent him the false report of MacLeod’s death, and events had tanked from there. He needed to document the final outcome to his own satisfaction. Confession was good for the soul, they said, if not the career.

Then he could draw a line under it. Joe wanted to start this new chapter in Seacouver on a clean page, even if the words were for his eyes only.

He found the last entry, and froze. According to his log, he’d already updated the Shapiro war, and put three hard, heavy lines under it. And there was a new chapter, dated days ago, the day he’d landed in town. “Stopped by to test the waters with MacLeod, but looks like he has company. Red hair, dancer’s balance--is that Cassandra? Damn, I think she spotted me…”

Foregoing his private code, Joe wrote in quick, bold, block letters, “I do not remember the last dated entry. I do not remember sighting Cassandra. I don’t remember anything about this last entry at all.” He quickly dated the new entry, adding the time and location.  He then drew three hard lines under that note as well.

Chilled, Joe slid the notebook back into its hidden slot below the steering wheel. Turning on the engine, he checked the right mirror then turned to his left to check the road. He slammed on the handbrake when a hand reached into the car window and caressed his face.

“Hello, Joe. Do you know me?” A woman, dark hair with a hint of copper, arresting features, no visible weapons.

“I have a knack for names and faces. It’ll come to me,” Joe leaned away from her touch, and reached for the radio. Noise. He needed noise.

“We’ll have to remedy that. Don’t touch that dial.”

Joe’s arm froze. “Whatever you say, lady. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Up close, Cassandra had very scary eyes, just like her portrait in the Watcher Archives. Her nails were notably shiny, and sharp. Joe made a mental note to record those observations for the records. Sadly, after further short but intense conversation, Joe almost immediately forgot those little details.  He didn't remember handing over his notebook.

He didn’t even remember driving back to the bar.

 

***********

Delilah’s by the Bay

 

_“Just a talent I have…”_

_“You got any more?”_

Joe felt a little bad about beating Delilah at arm wrestling, even if it was to find Haresh Clay before he killed Richie all kinds of dead. He felt like a mean-spirited ringer.  His right arm had been doing most of the work for his shot up left shoulder for more than a month. It was like cheating.

He turned down the free beer, and in the course of conversation realized he felt worse about conning Delilah than about yet again tippy-toeing around his Watcher oath to help MacLeod. His sense of the ethics of observatory participation in the field was eroded all to hell.

Distracted, he lingered a bit too long while tucking away the name of Haresh Clay’s hotel.  In the process, he allowed Delilah a glimpse of his wrist, giving her an opening of her own. “What’s that tattoo, Joe? I see a lot of them down here at the docks, on fishermen and sailors. That’s a new one to me. Armed services, or are you a gang kingpin?” Delilah was kidding. Mostly.

“Who, me?  Yeah, the services,” Joe clarified briefly, if mendaciously. “Gangs aren’t my gig.” Technically, the Watchers probably qualified as a gang according to some RICO statutes. God knows, they broke a terrifying number of laws on a spectacularly international basis.

Delilah eyed him critically. “With that fresh brush cut and your forearm torque, I’m guessing Marines, or maybe an old Ranger. And right now you have your collar straight and your head up, unlike most of my day drinking clientele. ”

“A Marine, yeah, back when I was young and dumb,” Joe didn’t elaborate. Delilah paid attention, and she’d navigated chance encounters with three different Immortals without getting hurt. In different days, he might have recruited her.

“Semper Fi, Marine. What does the tat stand for? An old girlfriend?”

“An idea. An ideal. A tradition.”

“Most tattoos do.”

Joe traced the faded blue ink. “It stood for something I needed, once.” He straightened. “Long time ago. Time to move on.”

“No one is stopping you here, jarhead.” Rebuffed, Delilah picked up a glass and polished off a water spot. “I guess your compass heading depends on your priorities. Family, friends, career.”

“Does additional therapy cost extra, or should I just order a shot of tequila?” Joe asked, with a sad smile to take off the sting.

‘It is definitely extra. In fact, I’m 100 percent positive you can’t afford it.”

“Story of my life,” Joe agreed, and tugged at his sleeve, then stopped and looked hard again at the pale blue circle and trefoil etched on his left wrist. Career, was it? After he fulfilled this one unasked obligation to MacLeod, was that all he had left?

Career. The tattoo was etched on his chord fingering wrist. It had faded--Jim Morrison was still playing in Paris when it was first inked.

Friends. He clearly remembered the flash of the tattoo needle, stinging so sweetly, surrounded by his fellow students in the graduating cohort.

Family. He’d almost married that spring, after graduating the Watcher academy. He’d almost raised a daughter. Almost.

Joe snapped out of his reverie, and reached for his wallet to leave his card. “Maybe there’s one last bit of advice you could pass along. No therapy involved. In return, I’ll buy you a cocktail of your choice. Here, or at my place, your call.”

“You have a place?” Delilah asked, not hiding her skepticism. “Where? Never mind, I don’t want to know, because, no offense, I don’t date barflys off the docks. Granted, you tip better than most, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Delilah looked him up and down. “If you’re looking for advice, I say, get a job.”

Joe laughed. Maybe the ‘just another barfly off the docks’ disguise had been a bit too effective. He slid his card across the counter. “I'm all too fully employed.  Joe’s Bar, just up the road, in that no man’s land between the warehouses and downtown.”

“Shoot.  You're Joe,” Delilah read the card and tucked it into the register. "You’re _the_ Joe.” She didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who was easily impressed. “You’re one elusive cat, the weekend jazz drummer says. Never advertising your own sets, not pictured on your own posters, jetting off like a rock star to Europe at the drop of a hat.”

“My cover is blown. But honestly, I stay with some guys I know in Paris to keep costs down, and play a few side gigs to keep my hand in, ” Joe told the truth to hide the lie. “Hey, most of the time I’m just a bartender like you, washing the glasses and hosing out the bathrooms. Besides, consider the source. A drummer? A jazz drummer? Come by for a beer and I’ll give you a tour.”

“You don’t have to bribe me,” Delilah grinned. “And I expect a wrestling rematch. You’re not going to catch me by surprise again.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Joe laughed. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Reputation is all you’ve got in this world that you can take with you and leave safe with your friends at the same time.”

Joe nodded, losing his smile. “Point taken.” He shot his cuffs and covered up the tattoo.

“So what other kind of advice can this waterfront diva offer to an international man of mystery like yourself?” Delilah asked.

“I could use a new compass heading. Where is the best place in town to get a tattoo removed--safe, fast, and no questions asked? My priorities need a little work.”

 

**************

Seacouver Public Library

 

Cassandra leafed through a compendium of ancient Norse sagas, referring back to an earlier chapter in the Watcher’s notebook, rejoicing when she identified a sly skaldic reference to Kanwulf.  That symbol anchored the entry date and the action chronicled.  Practically a Rosetta Stone for future translations.

Cassandra had spent all day in the library studying, and needed a breath of wilder outdoor air.  She was politely avoiding the dojo while Duncan dealt with the return of his problem student. That gave her some very long days for in-depth study of Dawson’s work.  He melded music and language and even ancient alphabets.  Scattered phrases in Latin and German were easy to read, but surprisingly, much of the journal remained opaque, with oblique references to musical notes, theory, even whole songs.

Cassandra recognized some monkish modalities in the scores, and many irregular or obsolete musical notations suggested a substitution code. The more arcane stanzas revealed some unexpected knowledge of the history of music and the bardic arts. Joe Dawson had more innate caution than Duncan credited, and his layered secrecy suggested deeper game than she had surmised.

MacLeod’s symbol was common and obvious, a recurring crosshatch (a tartan pattern? or sharp note?) though one rarer slanted variant might represent Connor. She had deciphered a medieval coin bag with an oni shape and loose purse strings that made her think of Amanda. The Watcher was playing with fire, tracking that one. A sheaf of barley also recurred in recent entries, meriting further study.  Duncan needed a dependable companion.  Maybe this one would be a candidate.

Cassandra tossed the notebook to the desk and closed the reference book with more respect. She felt a growing conviction that Dawson’s coded entries hid an unnaturally close attachment to his subject. But attachments could be undermined.  Weakness in Duncan's companions could potentially weaken Duncan's resolve, as well. The millennial beast was stirring, and there were many challenges still to be faced by the Solstice child.

Sighing, she returned the reference book to the librarian, and buttoned her collar against the evening rain. Casting the fates of mortals was a tricky business. Most were too ephemeral to disturb the skeins, but this journal prickled with awful tangles of possibility.

Cassandra missed her home hearth, her spices, her warded privacy. She could spend weeks delving into the journal, and still miss a critical note. If there was even an outside chance the Watcher would make a proper companion for Duncan in his coming ordeals, they needed to know now.  If he did not meet muster, she could quietly clear the way for a successor, and Duncan need never know.

Translation was too slow.  There was a surer and faster way, though it carried greater risk. She could just pay a visit to Duncan’s Watcher tonight in his own lair, and ask him politely to translate the entire text. The solution had the merit of efficiency, simplicity and speed.

If he was obdurate, she had a libation that eased the tongue, will, and memory. A taste of honeyed thyme, datura, a bit of the amanita panthera, red sage and burdock root, reduced to a tincture, ideally masked by alcohol...MacLeod’s kitchen had the tools, and the local Chinese herb stores had the other ingredients.

Cassandra never traveled without her little book of recipes.

 

***************

Joe’s Bar, later that evening

 

The day after taking Haresh Clay’s quickening, MacLeod slipped quietly into the bar at closing. He hung up his long waterproof overcoat, shiny with raindrops from a late spring storm. Without a word he started putting the chairs up on the tables as the last patrons trickled out and Joe buttoned up the bank.

“Make yourself at home, Mac,” Joe offered laconically.  "I can do that later," he added, as he eased over to lock the door. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen Richie, today. Glad you patched things up to the point of shaking hands.”

“It’s a new start. He left town to think things over,” Duncan said as he finished stacking chairs, all but two at the table near the bar. “He wanted me to say his farewells for him. He’s a little gun shy of both Watchers and Immortals, right now.”

“Aren’t we all?” Joe allowed, absently rubbing his shoulder. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, automatically looking to the top shelf, then hesitating.

“You sound unsure,” MacLeod observed, walking to the bar, but not touching the polished wood.

“You shook Richie’s hand, not mine. You do get prickly about sharing a drink with those you are displeased with,” Joe observed with arid understatement.

“True,” Duncan admitted. “You have been open-handed in your hospitality, and I have been rude.”

“I let you down in Paris. You had cause to cut me loose. You still have cause.”

“ _‘Hell of a thing, weighing ethics and honor against a friend’s life,’_ ” Duncan quoted Joe’s own words back to him.

Duncan then leaned over the bar, lowering his voice. “When we parted in Paris, I don’t think I quite appreciated the fact you held back the wrath of a multinational corporation with a single handgun and the sheer force of your personality. Do you have any proper whisky in this tavern to celebrate your unlikely survival?”

“There might be some left.” Bemused, Joe set up two glasses with his right hand and reached toward a dusty Islay on the top shelf with his left, stopping halfway. “Ow.” Less than smoothly, he set his teeth and ground through the pain in the bunched scars on his shoulder, grabbing the Bruichladdich. “I need to work on getting my range back,” he apologized, waving off Duncan’s look of concern. With ceremony, he placed two coasters before them, the glasses exactly centered, and made a generous pour.

“Keep reaching,” Duncan encouraged brightly. “We need to make plans.  You’ll need to get back into shape to fight the good fight behind the Watcher lines. By the new millennium, we’ll be running the organization and exploring peaceful partnerships with Immortals all over the world.”

Joe let up on his own pour before he spilled a precious drop, and stared at MacLeod. “Are you serious?”

“Too soon?” Duncan asked innocently, raising his glass. “You could stop by the dojo and work on your flexibility.  I'll get you a free membership.”

“Too soon, clown. I have a membership at the Y, and they have hot running water.” Joe laughed. Their glasses clinked. “Besides, can you imagine the mayhem resulting from a partnership between Amanda and the Watchers?” A short silence settled as they allowed the smoky peat to perform its companionable magic.

“Truthfully, Joe, I should have asked whether it was safe for you to try to rejoin the organization.”

“Life ain’t safe, as my dad used to say back in Chicago,” Joe shrugged.  "I was twelve when he was killed fighting a fire."

“You don’t talk about your family often,” Duncan grabbed the bottle and glasses and moved them to the table. Joe came around the bar and reset the glasses on the coasters before settling down with some relief.

“My family history doesn’t pertain, often,” Joe dodged. “It’s my job to chronicle you, not the other way around.”

Duncan raised a brow.

“Okay, okay, aside from the Horton branch. He was an in-law, not my DNA.”

The brow went up further. “So, you have a Watcher family and a DNA family? And you’re the prodigal son of both?”

Joe was starting to regret admitting he was anything but immaculately conceived. “The Watchers are like one big dysfunctional clan, aren’t they? And don't you forget, I've read the MacLeod clan history.  There is a noticeable lack of choirboys."

MacLeod nodded sadly. "Father Bailey ran me out of choir practice for letting my frog hop into the holy water font."

"Why am I not surprised?  But the Watchers, they aren't a choir, either. It’s no sure thing they’ll take me back, Mac.” He swirled the whisky in his glass. “I’ve got a line out to a guy who used to work with Don Salzer in the repositories. He’s good at working the political side of the system.”

“Not your strong point.”

“You think? Anyway, he’s going to send a few letters pretending to strong arm me into returning to the fold, just to Watch you.”

“Because you’re my best Watcher?”

“Because the casualty rate in your neighborhood is too high, and I’m expendable.”

“Oh.”

“If he can get the new Tribunal to agree, it’ll mean a demotion to a field posting again, but that’s better than the proverbial hole in the head.”

“Do you even want the job back? You’ve got the bar.” Duncan waved at the stage. “You could play more music.”

“It’s a little late in life for me to start a garage band. And I’ve been retired all of two days? I already miss it like home made bread. Being a field agent, that is. Not so much being a regional supervisor--there was too much bureaucracy and bean counting, too little actual chronicling. While I’m still mobile I’ll take a dark alley or two over an office any day.”

“And what about swamping out the bar every night?  Stocking every day?  No holidays or weekends off?"

“Ah, the romantic life of a blues bar owner. As a cover, it rocks. As a way of life?” Joe laughed, ruefully rubbing his tired thighs. “I think I’m about over that dream. Maybe I’ll just put a hat out on the sidewalk and brush up on my Sam Cooke tunes.”

Then Duncan’s head shot up and he stared at the door. “Excuse me for a moment, Joe,” he said, rising and carrying his coat to the door. “Richie would knock at the back door after closing. Unless you’re auditioning for another Immortal?”

“Hell, no,” Joe swore. “I’m cut off from the network, now, Mac. I have no idea who’s in town.” He pushed away from the table and struggled to his feet, just as the locked door flew open. “Damn, that is not supposed to happen.”

“Cassandra?” Duncan lowered his sword. “What are you doing here?”

“Dripping?  Duncan, you were not supposed to be here,” she said, remaining in the door frame, looking at Joe, the bar’s owner, rather than MacLeod.

“Come in, please,” Joe said belatedly, casting a puzzled glance at Duncan.

“I am not a vampire, Watcher. I don’t need to be invited in. But it is important to observe the nuances,” Cassandra laughed as she swept into the room.

Duncan backed up, trench coat still in hand, glancing from Cassandra to Joe, and back. “You know each other?”

“No,” Joe snapped.

“Yes,” Cassandra contradicted, throwing Joe’s notebook onto the table. She picked up the whisky bottle by the neck. Hiding a vial in her palm, she allowed a generous amount of her tincture to trickle into the neck of the bottle as she examined the label. “I see you two have been bonding, again. Are you sure that is wise, Duncan?”

“Our friendship is none of your business, Cassandra,” Duncan put aside his coat and strode across the room to stand by Joe.

“You forget yourself, Duncan MacLeod,” Cassandra declared, and commanded. “And you forget what I am. Stand still and be quiet, like a Watcher. Observe, and do not interfere. It is harder than you think.”

Stricken mute, Duncan stood still, and did not interfere.

“Mac!” Joe called out, raising his cane, his closest weapon.

“Do drop that stick and sit down.” It clattered to the ground at Cassandra’s feet. She leaned down and politely hung it from the back of Joe’s chair. Both men were actively fighting her influence now.

She would tire quickly, without assistance. Time for a more conciliatory approach. “Do please take a chair as well, Duncan. We’re all friends, here. Please...have another drink. More than one. They’re on me.”

Cassandra hoped she hadn’t added too much amanitas. It had been on sale. A sly but botanically knowledgeable youth in the park guaranteed the efficacy, and questioning revealed he sincerely believed in his product. In an hour, and for hours after, the mortal and the Highlander would be safely suggestible and unmoored from temporal or personal worries.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience, Duncan. You’re too important to be left to depend on chance companions.  Ramirez had Masamune.  Timothy of Aramathea had the Templar of Tyre.”

"I have Joe," Duncan declared, grinding the words out through a nearly frozen jaw.

Cassandra again waved him silent.  If it suited the Highlander’s better interests, she could make Duncan forget the observant tavern-keeper ever existed. The journal had hinted the two first met in person only four years before, a tiny span in Immortal time frames.

Performing the same boon for the Watcher would be more difficult--he seemed to have been studying MacLeod for decades. Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. In fact, were she not so ethically inclined, it would be far easier to wipe the slate clean, and make the Watcher forget his own name.

Permanently.

 

**************

After Hours

 

The frisson of an intruding Immortal took Cassandra by surprise, and she cursed herself for not setting proper wards and safety precautions before starting her ritual. At the same time, a light started blinking behind the bar.

“What does that mean, Watcher?” she snapped.

“Someone is breaking in the back door. Got to happening so often, I put in a warning light,” Joe said happily and helpfully.

They had barely begun to delve into the shared nuances of the journal. Duncan and the Watcher were finally relaxing, recalling, reliving past adventures. With a little encouragement, they might travel much further. Uninterrupted, the two amiable idiots might have shared their secrets until dawn.

Duncan was in absolutely no shape to recognize, much less defend a challenge. Worse, overcoming their stubborn pride to get to this point had drained the power of her Voice to a whisper.

So, she whispered. “Up, Duncan.” Cassandra urged while she drew her own sword. “I need you to go, now! Away with you, fast and far. Remember your roots. Remember your clan. Survive.”

Alone, separated from the Watcher, his disorientation would clear more quickly. “Begone, Duncan,” she said, pushing him out the front door into the cascading rain.

If she could hold a rearguard action in narrows of the back hall for just a few minutes, Duncan should be safe. And if she survived, she could return to questioning the Watcher alone as she’d originally planned.

But first, Cassandra had to hold the door. She charged down the hallway, aiming a solid kick at the crossbar that opened the solid back door in hopes of bringing first blood to the intruder. Every advantage was critical.

Left to his own devices, Joe Dawson eased himself up from the table, took one last swig of his whisky, and ambled out the door after Duncan MacLeod.

 

**************

The Alley Behind Joe’s Bar

 

Amanda’s phone calls from Seacouver Airport to both Joe and MacLeod had all been picked up by message machines--she was getting sick of the click of the cassettes kicking in. It would serve them both right if she recorded some special messages of her own before she left town again. She’d had to hail a taxi, and the driver did not take English pound notes or French credit cards, and she’d finally had to stand in the rain to write a check.

Amanda was not in the finest of moods.

Her heels splashed in a puddle on the wet alley concrete as she made her way to Joe’s back door. There was Joe’s car, in the usual spot by the loading dock, dappled by rain. She’d seen MacLeod’s Thunderbird on the street. The blossoming buzz of Immortality did not surprise her as she reached the back door and started picking the lock on the old-fashioned emergency door. Still, something in the tone and intensity of the aura encouraged her to readjust her wardrobe and loosen her sword.

Just as the lock clicked, the inside emergency exit bar clanged and the door crashed open. Amanda leapt out of the path of the heavy door, feeling the breeze as it swept by.

“I am cold. I am wet. And I do not react well to a broken nose. Fair warning, MacLeod,” Amanda called out, straightening the collar of her raincoat. Before drawing her next breath to address Joe’s sins as well, she leapt off the loading dock entirely, landing back in the puddle, having barely evaded being skewered by the sword that flashed out of the darkened hallway.

“Cassandra!” Amanda’s blade hissed as she withdrew it from the hidden scabbard. Squaring her stance, she held the sword en garde in her right hand and drew out Rebecca’s crystal, holding it before her like a shield in her left. It spun and gleamed in the light over the loading dock. Raindrops created tiny prisms on it’s bright surface.

“Do you believe a shiny rock can protect you from my power, Amanda Darrieux?” Cassandra scoffed.

“Rebecca taught me there is power in belief,” Amanda said calmly, but she also backed away, giving Cassandra a cautious berth. “So yes. I believe.”

“I mean you no harm, Amanda,” Cassandra modulated her tone, but her sword did not waver.

Amanda let go of the crystal, and pulled a set of headphones from her jacket pocket. “Just in case, there’s also power in Walkmans. Shall we dance, or negotiate this matter like civilized women?”

Cassandra considered the question, glancing up and down the alley. “You’re alone.” A statement, not a question. Slowly, she dropped her guard. “Civilization is underrated, and we have a well-stocked bar to smooth negotiations. Enter. I do not duel with women, as a rule.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Amanda answered, but the words were not meant to carry to the Witch of Donan Woods.

Amanda left her Walkman on as she strode into the negotiation. Janis Joplin’s voice might not be intrinsically magical, but the mojo seemed to be working, even at low volume.

The atmosphere between them was cold and rocky from the start. Cassandra’s uninvited intrusion into Joe’s space did not noticeably defrost Amanda’s attitude one whit.

Amanda stood at one end of the bar, holding, but not tasting, a favorite Chablis that Joe kept in stock just for her. Cassandra stood at the other end, sipping a merlot. Their swords were bared on the bar at their right hands.

Amanda studied the empty table between them, and the better than half-full bottle. “Joe only breaks out the Bruichladdich on special occasions. And he’d never forget to put it back.”

“Well, ‘never’ is a complicated word,” Cassandra said. “Is it to your taste?” she offered helpfully.

Amanda cast back to Rebecca’s stories about the wiles of the witch of Donan Wood. ‘Drink of nothing in her presence, Amanda. Eat nothing. Tarry not.’ “You poisoned them.”

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Granted, an incorrect measure of amanitas will ruin your day.” While Cassandra matter-of-factly described how her tisane was designed to create a cooperative atmosphere, Amanda caressed her hilt.

“And now Duncan’s gone? And Joe, too?” Amanda pointed at Duncan’s raincoat, still draped on the bar. “You sent them out into the storm without weapons, drugged and confused? Did Joe even have a coat?”

“You are being dramatic. I consider the tisane a medication, a clarifying agent. Duncan’s confusion about his identity and purpose predates my arrival here. This situation is your fault, really. I sensed a potential threat to Duncan at the door, and I acted.”

“You overreacted. Joe shared with me the privileges of his hospitality years ago. I had the right to enter.”

“His journal states it differently. ‘Gave Amanda carte blanche to break in when she needs. Giving her a key would be insulting. Amanda can pick my locks anytime.’ ” Cassandra’s insinuate was barely covert.

“I believe you’ve forgotten the first rule of hospitality, Cassandra.” She thought of Joe’s comment as a point of pride, and a gift. “This is Joe’s bar, and however you protest, you have assaulted him under his own roof.” There was nothing subtle in this insult.

Cassandra colored. “We can debate situational ethics at a later date. If you worry for the Watcher, look for him. Time passes, and the storm winds grow colder.”

“We need to find them both.”

“They are on foot. The Watcher can’t travel any significant distance. He should be easy to find, if you don’t waste more time. The tenuous vision he shares with Duncan will fade once they part. Duncan will range farther alone, but he still has his instincts to look for safe haven in a storm. We’ll probably find him at the dojo, sleeping like a teenager.”

Amanda came to a decision. “I can trust you, or I can fight you. Fighting would just slow us both down, and accomplish nothing. It’s just after one in the morning. You take Duncan’s car, I’ll take Joe’s, and we search. In an hour, I’ll return here, you go to the dojo. Phone here, and report.”

“It is cheeky of you to give me orders, but I will honor your trust.” Cassandra smiled. “For your one hour, at the least. Then, we will see.”

“One last thing,” Amanda grasped her sword, and glanced at the notebook that still lay open on the table. “I’ll take guardianship of Joe’s journal, or the truce is lifted.”

Nettled, Cassandra hesitated, then slowly nodded. “It is yours. For now.” The unlikely fact the Watcher followed MacLeod into the storm changed her calculations. Gathering her sword, Cassandra appropriated the bottle of whisky and emptied it in the bar sink. Then she picked the pocket of Duncan’s raincoat for the keys to the Thunderbird, to Amanda’s silent disdain, and left without further word.

“You don’t know Duncan as well as you pretend,” Amanda said softly, as she pocketed Joe’s journal. “And you clearly don’t know Joe at all.”

 

***************

1541 in the Highlands of Scotland

 

“Up, ye scobberlotching smellfeasts!” Joe woke up to the drill instructor volume and tone of the order, if not the actual words. “Up and out! Time to clean up your bawlocks! ‘Tis the day of Sun’s Return! Last yaldson to the loch scrubs the stables to the slates!” The voice on the doorstep shook the reed eaves of the bothan. The one room bothy smelled like a tavern, if the tavern had not been swept in a year and doubled as a sheep shed.

Duncan bounced out of the pile of quilted coats, wrapping his peat-brown plaid around his more dangly parts. “Up, you Irish gobermouch, ‘tis the Solstice, the day of sun’s return!” All around them in the tiny room lumps of wool resolved themselves into a handful of swearing swordsmen.

“What did he say?” Joe pulled up blearily, launched to his feet by Duncan’s helping hand. “Hell, what did you say?”

“I say that last bottle of Islay addled any Gaelic you had! And ye’ve yet to wrap yerself properly against the loch’s morning breeze.” Duncan was speaking an almost recognizable form of English, Joe realized.

Joe caught the mottled length of rough fabric that Duncan threw at him, draping it over his shoulders as he was forcefully shepherded out the door by Duncan’s gleeful shove. Apparently he’d slept in his boots and woolies. He’d developed a phantom itch in places he hadn’t scratched in three decades. “That must have been some Islay,” he muttered. “Where are we going?”

“Come, Joseph, you can’t go into the new year with auld dirt on yer bawbags! To the loch!”

“Rude Scot,”Joe muttered. English or not, he was fairly sure there was an insult or three in there somewhere. Tugged forward as much by Duncan’s wild enthusiasm as his jostling, Joe still fought a fogbank in his head the size of London Town.

He stumbled, staggered, walked, then ran, drawn in Duncan’s irresistible wake. Down the rocky path, over the muddy sheep track. He ran through a thicket into a clearing covered with crunching old snow, hurdling a patch of gorse. His booted feet skidded on some icy grass, then found traction in the rocky frozen soil.

The wind crept under his mantle and tickled his ribs. The rocks rattled as he kicked into the slope for footholds. His harp bounced on his back, and he rejoiced at its comforting weight. It was the most amazingly real dream he’d ever had.

He flew up the hill after MacLeod like the world would end if he stopped.

“I’m running, MacLeod!” he sang out, his voice echoing about the glen.

“Aye!” Duncan sang back, fey and joyous, as they topped a small hillock. “You run well, for a leisg Irish harper!”

“Who are you calling lazy...?” Joe’s protest trailed away as they topped out on the ridge together.

They slowed to watch the first sunbeams of the new morning breach a gap in the tor to the east to light up a tall peak in the west. Snow gleamed on the northern slopes, and below black water curled westward through a long narrow channel between steep ridges. In the distance, taighs and hovels surrounded a larger manor and a stone chapel.

“Loch Shiel?” Joe whispered, stunned.

“And Glenfinnan. ‘Tis a scene from long ago, Joe. A vision. See that manor in the vale to the east? It was burned in a cattle raid by the MacDonalds before I was born. I only saw a painting, once, in one of Connor’s shops. Connor returned here again and again in generations after he was banished. They say Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobo Ramirez taught him water-magic on this very shore. Clansmen and allies and even enemies have gathered for centuries on this ridge to celebrate the solstice.”

“You look younger, in these hills, MacLeod,” Joe said softly. He looked happier, as well, as if recent shadows were banished in this place. Or, perhaps, the shadows had yet to fall.

“You should see me at twelve, a gangly colt with no manners at all. And what about you? Have you looked at yourself, bard? Your locks are brown as a peat turve and longer than mine,” Duncan laughed again.

“Shades of the 1960s,” Joe shook his head, then brushed a long strand back behind his ear and combed his fingers through a longer (and warmer) beard. He needed to gear himself up mentally, before looking down, for fear of breaking the spell. “Shades of the 1560’s,” he amended, getting into the spirit.

“Good guess, though certain clues point to 1541,” Duncan said with the confidence of a native as he surveyed his clan’s holdings and assembling cousins.

“Cassandra can do this?”

“She can. She has. Perhaps not with everybody, but you have roots in these isles. Best not to dwell on that. Not when the sun is rising and the Loch lies welcoming before us.”

Joe pointed to two figures standing a few hundred yards further down the ridge. “Who is that?” he asked, his mouth going dry.

“Yon warrior in the brown plaid and squirrel nest hair, or yon dandy with the peacock feather? Call them certain clues pointing to 1541. Best not to attract their attention, yet,” Duncan recommended. “You’re in denial, aren’t you? I was too, the first time I met myself,” he admitted, his accent again broadening in echo of the voices of more approaching Scots.

Joe finally looked down, flexing his toes inside a patched leather boot held together by sinew ties. There were no tattoos on his wrist, no knobs on his knuckles from supporting his weight, no calluses from leaning on the cane. Then he met MacLeod’s eyes, matching his very boyish grin. “Maybe a pinch would wake me up? But hold off, because if this is a dream, I don’t want to give it up just yet. Maybe not ever.”

More voices clamored, echoing in the hills, and more Scots joined them on the hilltop as the sun inched down the opposite peak. The dead calm surface of the loch waters glowed with the orange and pink, mirroring the light in the mountains. A frosty breeze ruffled Joe’s hair, and he pulled his plain brown mantle closer around his bare shoulders.

“Off with your boots, now. It is time.” Duncan bent to undo his shoe ties, piling boots and hose neatly in a patch of heather.

“What?” Joe looked around and saw others were doing the same, and began to follow suit, puzzled. “Why?”

“We race down,” MacLeod challenged. “We have to beat the sun.”

“The sun where? Down there? There’s nothing but the Loch down there, MacLeod.” Joe saw the man in the peacock hat bound forward, tossing his hat to the wind, stripping off his tunic. “Oh, hell, no.”

“Aye. Last one in cleans the stables,” MacLeod teased, then launched himself off the hillock.

“Dammit, MacLeod!” Joe yelled, but he was laughing again, and running, and stripping off the long winding plaid as he jumped from one patch of heather to another, dodging boulders the size of interior linemen.

MacLeod slipped on some slick granite, leaving a temporary rash in an inconvenient place, and a crooked cut over his eyebrow. Joe seized the chance to catch up, this time hauling MacLeod up and turning his addled pate in the right direction.

With a fair restart, Joe attacked the race with a reckless passion.

“You’re faster than you look, Joe,” MacLeod complimented, taking a hidden shortcut to cut his steps and pull ahead by a yard.

“Being an Irishman in Scotland? I’d better be!” Joe shot back, sucking in a ragged breath and hissing as they dropped onto the frozen pebbles of the strand.

“But will you brave the water?”

“Try me!”

They hit the water as one, just as the sun flashed on the dark mirror of Loch Shiel.

 

************

Meanwhile, back at Joe’s Bar

 

Amanda hotwired Joe’s car, and cruised every alley, avenue and boulevard surrounding Joe’s Bar. MacLeod’s signature did not register. The warehouses were dark, the uptown clubs were quiet, the streets were empty. Joe was not slumped in any doorway, or sleeping in any alley.

At 1:57 she returned to the bar. The rain still came down in sheets, and the wind was rising. Amanda stared at the phone accusingly, as the clock crept from 1:58 to 1:59. When it rang, she snatched it from the cradle behind the bar. “Cassandra?”

“No, honey. The name’s Delilah. Is this Joe’s? This is the number on his card.”

“I’m closed for the night.” Amanda almost hung up, but curiosity about strange women calling for Joe in the dead of night stayed her hand. “Joe isn’t here.”

“Hold on, no need to be snippy. I just called to say I think we have something you’ve lost. Namely, your owner? You might want to come on down and roll him and his buddy out before I have to call a paddy wagon. Or an ambulance. He’s on one helluva binge.”

At 2:00 am precisely, Cassandra called the bar to tell Amanda that MacLeod was still missing, but presumably safe, since a quickening of his stature would be noticed for miles up and down the western seaboard. She held onto the receiver for an even dozen rings, and once more for luck. There was no answer.

Thoughtfully, Cassandra hung up and began to pack her bag. Sometimes, the best thing to do was to do nothing. Entropy solved far more problems than it caused, in her experience, if one had time and patience enough. Cassandra had patience. And, if she retreated to a safe haven, she had a great deal of time.

Amanda would wait.

*************

Delilah’s By the Bay

 

When Amanda arrived at Delilah’s bar, she heard Joe before she saw him. He was sitting next to a space heater in the back, singing a full-throated Irish lay while Duncan pounded the table in a near approximation of the beat. A few surviving denizens of the late shift of drinkers were doing their best to support the chorus, in an appalling number of keys.

Duncan’s Immortal aura felt mellow and merry, and when he spied her through the crowd he waved happily, if not soberly. Amanda waved back, sidled up to the bar, and caught Delilah’s attention. “How long have they been here? Where did you find them?”

“They rolled in about a half hour ago, raving mad and soaking wet. A friendly coastie stopped by to see if I knew them. He found them on the pier. If they took a midnight swim, they’re lucky to be alive, considering the water that scummy part of the bay. But maybe they just didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.”

“You took them in?”

“Cops take people in. I take people’s money.”

“A woman after my own heart.” Amanda looked around. “Still, it sounds like you went above and beyond. I bet you don’t call everybody’s mother, wife, or girlfriend when they go off the rails.”

Delilah laughed. “Valid point. Joe’s a fellow bar owner. It’s getting to be a dying breed. I figured if I did him a solid, he’d remember down the line. So I talked the coastie into dropping him off here instead of arresting him. His buddy was an unexpected bonus. He’s scenic, but a little high maintenance.”

“Tell me about it,” Amanda agreed with a sisterly smile.

Delilah leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I’m thinking someone roofied them and then rolled them. Their wallets are gone, they don’t even have any credit cards or ID. Some of those guys Joe hangs out with aren’t quite on the up and up, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Amanda said, from the heart.

Delilah winced as Duncan slammed a mug against the table as the song ended. “Another round for the harper! Another round for every scobberlotcher in the house!”

“Duncan’s good for it,” Amanda quickly reassured when she saw Delilah’s expression. “But you can hold onto my card until he comes back tomorrow,” she swiftly added, handing over her own card with a small pang.

Delilah didn’t even blink at the French credit card. She had other issues. “If your Duncan calls me a scobberlotcher again, I’ll hang him from his bawbags and charge him double,” Delilah warned. “What is a scobberlotcher, anyway?”

“Old Scots for a lazy layabout, if I remember correctly,” Amanda answered. “And ‘bawbags’ translates to…”

Delilah waved her off. “I figured that one out on my own. And the warning still stands.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Amanda agreed. “I might help with the hauling.”

“Meanwhile, I’m closing the doors at 3:00 sharp. You’d better get their story out of them before then, because I think they aren’t going to remember most of it in the morning.”

“One more pitcher should do it.”

“Oh, by the way, you should get Joe to put some of this on that burn patch on his arm,” Delilah handed over an economy sized bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “When I said the bay was scummy, I wasn’t kidding. This will lift out some of the gunk ‘til you can clean it off later. It’ll hurt like blazes, though.”

Alarmed, Amanda added the pitcher to Duncan’s tab, and bearing both medications, eeled her way toward the back of the room. The small crowd lost the beat of the music and drifted back to the bar as Delilah rang the bell for a free round and announced last call.

“Amanda! You made it!” Joe scooted over and offered her the seat by the heater, but she refused and pushed him closer to the warmth. “I didn’t know you and Delilah were friends.”

“Bosom buddies, Joe, from now on,” Amanda averred. “And don’t let that give you and MacLeod any ideas,” she warned, just a little bit too late.

“As soon as you two stop guffawing like unschooled teenagers, we have a few things to clear up.” Amanda rolled her eyes. Across the bar, Delilah winked, and mouthed “Bawbags, right?”

Joe observed, and recorded. “She’d make you a fine Watcher, someday, Amanda.”

“In your dreams.” And the two of them were nearly off their chairs again. “Maybe Cassandra was right,” she said to herself, but Joe caught the undertone and straightened.

“You met Cassandra?” he asked, looking around the room.

“Is she still alive?” Duncan chimed in, looking over his shoulder, as well.

“So far. Her hour’s up. Give me time,” Amanda said, making no promises either way.

Channeling her few but educational stints as a nurse over the centuries, Amanda snagged Joe’s arm, popped off the buttons and stripped back the fabric, to reveal a raw, red scar. “Oh, Joe.”

Duncan stopped laughing. “That doesn’t look good.”

Joe waved him off. “Just a scratch, right? No self-respecting Highlander would pay it a bit of notice.”

Amanda got Joe’s full attention when she splashed on a liberal dollop of peroxide, with impressively fizzy results. He made no sound of protest or pain, but did make a dent in the beer MacLeod wordlessly poured.

Afterward, Joe’s eyes were sadder, and clearer, and that made Amanda a bit sad, too. “Let’s get you home, Joe, before you catch pneumonia, to boot. It’s been a long night.”

An echo of Joe’s smile returned. “Not long enough. It was a helluva trip.” He put another dent in the mug of ale, and looked into the distance. “A helluva dream.”

“But what brought you all the way to Seacouver, Amanda?” Duncan asked, puzzled. “How did you find here?”

“Connor called me. He’s worried, and feeling a little bit clanless. He hid it well, but you need to talk to him, Duncan. He doesn’t handle stress as gracefully as you do.”

Joe snorted into his beer. “Tell that to Richie.”

Miming a barb to the heart, Duncan shot back, “Glass houses, Watcher.”

“Delilah’s right. Bawbags, the both of you,” Amanda patted them with affection, significantly above the knee. Taking advantage of their natural distraction, she drew out her copy of MacLeod’s note from St. Finan’s. “Now tell me how you managed this little message in a bottle.”

Joe shot forward in his seat and grabbed the xerox, holding it close, squinting at the detail. “It’s looks the same. Down to the quill flourishes. We slipped the warning into Ramirez’ pouch after the solstice. At least, that’s what I dreamed.” Joe stopped. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I? This is something my subconscious dredged up.”

Amanda fingered Rebecca’s jewel. “You believe in Immortals, Joe. Dreamtime isn’t so difficult a leap.”

Amanda turned to Duncan, who was staring at the square shape bulging in her raincoat pocket. “Don’t worry. I have the journal. Just as you ordered. Next time, sweetie, send a letter? Or a fax? Or even a carrier pigeon.”

“Carrier pigeon it is,” Duncan agreed, reaching for the journal.

Amanda slapped his hand away. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m keeping the book safe until I get you both home to Joe’s to sleep it off.”

“But the dojo is closer,” Duncan objected halfheartedly.

“Trust me, Duncan. It needs to be fumigated. You have a pest.”

“My bar is your bar. My bothan is your bothan,” Joe murmured, lurching to his feet. As they passed the taps Joe made a flowing bow of thanks to Delilah.

Amanda and Duncan caught him before he landed on his head, and gently aimed him to the door, and home.

Joe Dawson thanked Amanda and Duncan politely as well, and Connor, and Delilah again for good luck. As they ventured out the door into the dark of night, Joe paused at the car, and looked out into the rain lashing the bay and put his hand on Duncan's shoulder.  "Don't forget, Duncan."

Puzzled, Duncan asked, "Forget what, Joe?  We didn't bring anything with us."

Joe raised his voice to the darkness beyond.  " _Solstice next, may we meet again at the edge of the black water."_

Then Joe sighed, and returned to himself.  "Come on, lets go home and dry out.  I have a nice warm quilt you can use."

"We will share," Amanda declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

There were still a few hours until dawn to recapture, for a fleeting moment, the stuff of dreams.


End file.
